Classic Poem

I STRETCH out both my hands to you—
It pleased you once to call them fair;
Look now and see if anywhere
Are hands more scarred and worn than these
That lost their fairness serving you.

I lift up my two eyes to you—
It pleased you once to call them sweet;
Judge now if any eyes repeat
Their lack of light—poor eyes that wept
Their sweetness out in guarding you.

O hands and eyes once dear to you,
I would not they had served you less,
Yet hands like these who might caress,
Nor eyes like these win love again
For all their wistful prayer to you!